


TROUBLE DOLLS

by GreenWoman



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Challenge: Write a sequel to Alyjude's The Conversation, M/M, None - Freeform, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 00:23:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/791897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenWoman/pseuds/GreenWoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Later that same night....<br/>This story is a sequel to "The Conversation" by Alyjude.</p>
            </blockquote>





	TROUBLE DOLLS

## TROUBLE DOLLS

by GreenWoman

Author's webpage: <http://www.squidge.org/~halfaft>

* * *

With thanks and apologies to Pet Fly and Jimmy Buffett, and proceeding under the assumption that forgiveness is easier to ask than permission.... 

This is a sequel to Alyjude's "The Conversation," as invited in her author's notes. 

~~~ 

**TROUBLE DOLLS**

GreenWoman  
3/10/01 

~~~ 

I've been a stand-in, a stunt man  
I've taken some falls   
Troubles -- I've had my share 

HAPPILY EVER AFTER (NOW & THEN) ~ Jimmy Buffett & Dave Loggins 

~~~ 

Words for Jim Ellison were just that. A way to simply say what he needed to say -- simply. 

Blair on the other hand, lived for words. Words were everything to him. 

THE CONVERSATION ~ Alyjude 

~~~ 

The loft was quiet ... not a serene quiet, entirely, but not the barren quiet that might have been. Through the narrow crack in the doors of the small room in the corner came the sound of low and steady breathing, broken now and then with a sharp inhalation, a slight gurgle, and a rustle of bedsheets. The young man behind those doors suffered an uneasy sleep. 

Jim sipped at the dregs of his beer and let the bitterness sit on his tongue for a long moment before he swallowed. The glowing letters on the VCR told him that it was very early in the morning, but he resisted his own bed. Instead, he listened to the troubled slumber of the man who lay behind those doors. 

Blair was sleeping one more night in the loft. The kaleidoscope of scents that whispered "backpack" to Jim drifted through the loft, mixing with the other fragrances that told him Blair was still in residence; dark ale, aloe, mint, old paper, unwashed cotton. But boxes were piled by the door, still packed, and two duffel bags rested on the floor behind the couch, still zipped tight. 

A reprieve, not a resolution. 

*For now,* the air in the loft seemed to murmer. *For now....* 

A log on the fire popped, and Jim flinched. He set his empty bottle on the coffee table and got to his feet, stretched, and walked to the fireplace. He lifted the poker from its wrought iron hook carefully, so as not to make a noise, and halfheartedly poked at the logs, then closed the screen and regarded the flames. The new life they found with his prodding soon failed and left only glowing embers. 

Was it a sign? 

Jim turned away from the fire, too weary and worried for metaphors. Smoke from the fire stung his eyes ... surely it was smoke, nothing else ... and he lifted his hand to knuckle the saltwater away and-- 

*Damn!* 

He froze, the smallest toe on his right foot throbbing where it had connected with a corner of a cardboard box. But his attention was on the small room in the corner. A snuffle, and a cough, then even breathing again. The noise hadn't wakened the sleeper. 

Jim let his breath out, and looked down at his foot. 

*Damn.* 

Blair had packed in haste and anger, using old boxes rescued from the trash bin behind the bakery downstairs. "Cascade Powder Grist Mills" declared the lettering on the cardboard carton Jim's foot had sideswiped, and the jagged tear in the side that had been ineffectively repaired with old masking tape had opened up like the side of the Titanic. Small pieces of Blair's life were visible through the gash, and Jim bent down to look more closely. 

Bright woven fabric and a red knotted cord caught his eye. Gently he took the cord in hand and tugged. 

He remembered this. 

Folding it gently in his hand, Jim returned to the couch and sat quietly in the dark. In the faint light of the dying fire, bright colors of red and gold and blue and green were easily discernable to Sentinel eyes. 

They had been sitting on a bench, together and yet not, in the main concourse of the airport in Mexico City. Simon was at the ticket counter, trying to use the redoubtable power of American citizenship and American police credentials to secure seats on the next flight to Seattle. Megan was in the ladies room. Blair was trying very hard to stifle a ragged cough, and Jim had wrapped himself in a stony silence built of shame and worry. 

"Senor?" 

The old woman seemed to come out of nowhere. She was ancient but not infirm; white hair cradled her temples in smooth braided coils, and she wore black, except for the red and gold of her shawl. 

Blair blinked ... she was addressing him. Jim watched, on guard but somehow feeling foolish for it. 

*I beg your pardon?* Blair stumbled in broken Spanish. 

The wizened face warmed with a gentle smile. She extended a hand, and automatically Blair met it with his own. From the depths of the black bag slung over her bent shoulders, the crone produced a colorful bag and placed it in Blair's palm, folding his fingers around it. 

Soft murmurs in Spanish told Jim little. He recognized _no money_ from Blair, but only a few words of the woman's answer. *gift ... sweet soul ... sorrows ... trouble dolls ... peace...." 

And then she had bent and kissed him, as a mother would a son. 

"Gracias, madre," Blair had whispered. And Jim had watched, astonished that after all that had happened to them in Sierra Verde, Blair's eyes only now held unshed tears. He'd blinked fiercely to keep them at bay as the old woman walked away. 

"What is it, Chief?" Jim had asked. 

Blair didn't look up, but loosened the string on the bag and shook it over his hand. Six small dolls made of thread and bits of fabric tumbled into his palm. 

"Trouble dolls," he answered. 

"Trouble dolls?" 

"Indian women make them for their children. At night, you tell one trouble to each doll, then put them under your pillow. The dolls are supposed to take your troubles away before morning comes." 

"Why...?" Jim started to ask, then thought better of it ... too late. Blair blinked again, and Jim saw moisture darken one tiny face. Then Blair had fumbled the dolls back into the pouch and slipped it into his backpack, and silence had settled once again between them. 

The same troubled silence that now lay thick and foggy between the couch in the living room and the futon behind the French doors. 

Jim loosened the drawstring and let the six tiny dolls spill out into his hand, and stared at them. Three tiny figures made of scraps of cloth. But Jim had lived among the Indians, and had learned from Incacha that things were often more than what they seemed. Living with Blair had driven that lesson home. 

He laid the dolls out on the coffee table and picked one up. 

"I know you're Blair's," he said softly. "She gave you to him. But if you take my troubles away, you'll take a lot of his away too." 

The doll in his palm seemed to grow heavy, settling comfortably in his palm. It felt warm. Jim swallowed. 

"I'm afraid," he began. "I'm afraid he'll be hurt." 

He breathed softly on the doll, slipped it into the bag, and picked up another. 

"I'm afraid my ... our ... work will break his spirit." He blew on the doll and gently returned it to the bag. 

Four more dolls. Four more worries. Four more breaths. 

"I'm afraid he'll always mourn what he's given up for me." 

"I'm afraid he'll someday see me for what I truly am." 

"I'm afraid I'll fail him." 

"I'm afraid ... I'm afraid ... I'm afraid...." 

He couldn't say the last aloud, not even to a doll. Jim hoped the small spirit would hear him, nonetheless. He slipped the last doll into the bag and drew the string tight, and on an impulse, pressed it to his heart. Then he stood and began to undress in the firelight. When he wore only his boxers he walked the perimeter of the loft, checking the doors, checking the windows, listening. The silence was gentler somehow, warmer than it had been. Security seemed to gleam in the hardware of the knobs and latches; peace seemed to drift in the air like a barely detectable scent. 

Jim picked up the small woven bag and felt the six small figures inside. He held it firmly in his hand as he walked to the French doors, and through them. 

Blair shifted in his sleep and made a small and sorrowful sound. Fingers tightened on a fold of the comforter, and one bare shoulder shivered. 

Jim shivered too, and tightened his hand around the bag he held. Carefully he approached the futon, lifted the sheet and comforter, and slipped into the bed. With deliberate stealth, he slid the small bag beneath his pillow. And then, gently, he reached out and pulled the restless body of the man he loved into the curve of his own. 

Blair made a soft sound, and settled easily into the embrace. Jim pulled the comforter up and over his shoulders, and the shivering stopped. 

Dawn was only a few hours away, but Jim closed his eyes and felt sleep accept him. Somehow, he trusted, the trouble dolls would have enough time. 

~~~ 

Take it from me 'cause I found   
If you leave it, then somebody else is bound To find that treasure, that moment of pleasure When yours it might have been 

Some people never find it  
Some only pretend, but me  
I just want to live happily ever after  
Every now and then 

-30- 


End file.
